


(Not The) End of the World

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: spook_me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is not funny. This can't be real. Because that would mean that mutant zombie things are, like, attacking, no, <i>killing</i> people in Times Square and they're filming it and showing it on CNN and that's bullshit. That's total BS, dude, c'mon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not The) End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's spook_me challenge. My chose prompt was "zombies".

I

The evening begins like any other -- feet propped on the ottoman and laptop resting on his knees, Warcraft on the screen, game on the tube and John's fingers idly twisting in his hair during the breaks in the action. And the muted crackle of the police radio on the end table, dial twisted down so that the disembodied voices are barely recognizable as human.

He's already suggested that McClane turn the radio off when he's not on call. Because seriously, it won't be the end of the world if he doesn't listen in on the police band for one night. The suggestion was met with stony silence and then a jagged twist of the dial and a blaring report about street racing somewhere in Queens. You'd think the CCR incident would have taught him _something_. Matt had retreated to the office that night, and when John showed up at two a.m. with roast beef on whole grain and muttered something about Matt needing his carbs if he was going to stay up half the night, Matt had accepted both the food and the unvoiced apology. The next night, the radio got turned down to a hushed whisper and John made a move on him during the second intermission. Matt's Warcraft character got wiped out in a raid and John never did find out who won the game.

It's a compromise he can live with.

Now the radio is always turned so low that he's never quite sure how John can understand a thing they say -- how John can even _hear_ them over the rumble of the play-by-play and his own muttering at the referee's calls and Matt's murmured instructions to his guild. The only explanation is that John has superhearing, which would totally fit with the superendurance and the superstrength. And the superstupidity -- Matt will never get over the fact that McClane actually shot himself through the shoulder, and John's cocky "it worked, didn't it, kid" every time he brings it up just makes him close his eyes and grit his teeth.

He would have to fall in love with a fucking superhero.

On this evening it's hockey and John's team is losing --- Matt's not sure which team is McClane's, but John is shouting at the television more than usual and questioning the parentage of the ref, so losing is the logical conclusion. He barely glances up when Matt shrugs out from beneath his arm, nods distractedly when Matt waves toward the office.

Matt spends what he thinks are the next several hours immersing himself happily in a haze of 1's and 0's, and when he looks at his watch and discovers that it's almost seven in the morning he blinks and yawns and decides he needs fortification -- a sandwich and some orange juice, maybe -- before bed. He's not surprised to see John still perched on the sofa, eyes glued to the set. McClane can _say_ "it worked, didn't it, kid" with that smug little smirk, but Matt's been living with him for four months now, sharing his space, touching his body and listening to his heartbeat in the dark, and he knows the whole thing bothers John a lot more than he lets on. He's been awakened from a sound sleep by John tugging him roughly against his body, by John burying his nose in his hair and holding on tight, or turned over to discover John's side of the bed empty and found him reading at the kitchen table or slumped in the armchair watching an old movie. And he's done his own share of crawling on top of John when the images flickering behind his eyelids startle him to wakefulness, or creeping out of bed in the middle of the night to work on coding when the memories get to be too much.

John calls it insomnia instead of PTSD, and Matt can live with that, too. He's learned how to evaluate the dark smudges under John's eyes, knows when to urge him into bed and when to leave him be, when to speak up and when to keep his mouth shut, when to climb into his lap and kiss away the shared memories.

Now he glances at the screen and away, still mostly thinking about how great the sandwich is going to taste, when the image on the television actually registers in his brain.

"Whoa," he says, stopping in the middle of the room. "What are you watching?"

John doesn't answer, and Matt can only stare at the big screen in fascination. It appears to be some kind of horror movie, done in the shaky-cam style of _Blair Witch_ that always makes him feel slightly nauseas, but instead of an unknown stalker this one features some kind of slack-jawed mutants. Matt's eyes go wide as he watches a grey-faced man stagger into the frame, moaning something unintelligible before snapping his teeth in the face of a businessman covered in blood. The man cowers back, flails out a hand in an attempt to push the mutant thing away. But he's not fast enough, and the mutant thing's arm whips out, fingers hooked into claws which dig into the meat of the businessman's bicep while his head darts forward and his teeth rip into the man's shoulder. The resulting spurt of blood is entirely too realistic, as are the man's ear-piercing screams.

Matt swallows around a suddenly dry mouth, all thoughts of food forgotten. "Seriously, man," he says, "put on a western or something. This is totally not your style."

The picture on the screen changes unexpectedly as the camera is dropped, giving him a skewed vision of running feet and the slumped and lifeless body of the businessman. Matt's attention is diverted by smoke billowing in the background from an overturned car, someone waving wildly before ducking out of sight behind a building, and when he focuses again on the dead man… the dead man is no longer dead. The dead man is pulling himself to his feet using his one good arm, the other hanging uselessly in a tangle of torn muscle and exposed bone. The dead man nearly falls but manages to right himself before lurching out of the frame.

The picture flickers again and Matt has to bite his lip when the streetscape fades and Soledad O'Brien appears in the newsroom, looking shocked and dishevelled at her desk, the multiple screens behind her showing more of the carnage. Matt recognizes the familiar lights of Times Square, this time shot from one of the tourist cams on the corner, but there's also footage from the Space Needle, and… and oh jeeeeesus, he's pretty sure that's Nakatomi Tower on the LA cam and he can feel the scream rising in his throat, clamps down on it with an effort, curls his fingers into his palms and presses down until the pain clears his head.

It takes him two tries to speak. "Jesus Christ, John, what the fuck is this? This looks… real. This looks too fucking real."

"It's real," John says quietly. Matt's eyes flick over to John in time to see him rise from the sofa, never taking his eyes from the screen. "We're leaving. Get your shit together."

Matt blinks, abruptly aware that the police radio is blaring in the corner of the room, overlapping voices all calling frantically for help. He shakes his head, tries for a laugh that comes out sounding much too shaky. "Okay, c'mon man. I've heard of practical jokes before, but this!" He waves a hand at the television, takes a deep breath and tries to get his rising voice under control. "This is not funny. This can't be real. Because that would mean that mutant zombie things are, like, attacking, no, _killing_ people in Times Square and they're filming it and showing it on CNN and that's bullshit. That's total BS, dude, c'mon."

"Get your gear."

"It can't be real, McClane. Because, because… zombies aren't real! People do not die and then get up and bite other people, that's ridiculous, that's like 1970's drive-in spookfest shit, it's been overdone so much it's not even _scary_ anymore, Romero's a fucking joke now, don't you get it? And fuck, this just… I can't…. I'm not a superhero! I'm just some guy who likes computers and video games and I can't BE a superhero, okay? I wouldn't even know how to steer a car into a helicopter and I'd… I'd have to shave my head and my head is very pointy, McClane, it would not be a good look for me, and--"

"Move!"

Matt isn't even aware that John has come toward him until the hand flies from out of nowhere and John shoves him, and for some reason it's that push, John's meaty hand landing firmly on his chest and sending him stumbling back two steps that brings it all home for him. Not watching the snarling creatures staggering in and out of view of the cameras on the big screen TV, not the screams of the victims that, he suddenly realizes, are coming not only from the television but are now echoing on the streets of John's cozy little Brooklyn suburb as well. Not the scared, pale faces of the anchors in the CNN newsroom. It is John, standing in front of him, breathing heavily, John who can be gruff and sharp-tongued and intimidating as all hell but who never _ever_ lays a finger on him.

"Gather up whatever you need," John says now, large palm smoothing over his head before he snags his keys from the table and steps purposefully toward the hall closet. "Clothes, your computer shit, whatever you need to stay online through this. Nothing bigger than a duffel, we're traveling light. Grab some of my clothes too. I'll take care of the food. And don't fucking forget shoes!"

Matt blinks again, turns back to the television screen. Soledad O'Brien has been replaced by Anderson Cooper, live in the field, and even as he watches one of the zombies lurches toward the reporter before being taken down by a large dude in military fatigues.

"Matt."

Cooper's saying something about headshots and evacuation centers and the national guard, but Matt can't seem to concentrate on Cooper, all his attention taken by the hastily erected fence in the background, by the snarling moaning creatures throwing themselves against it, people that yesterday were dentists or fifth-grade teachers or math-based security consultants and are now undead things that want to make other undead things.

He frowns when the scene is suddenly replaced by a blank white canvas, and it takes him much longer than it should to realize that John has stepped in front of him, that he's staring at the T-shirt stretched over the wide expanse of John's chest. His gaze travels across to the shoulder holster, watches John's deft fingers secure the gun in place.

"Jesus," he murmurs.

Someone screams outside, high-pitched and terrifying, and John winces before taking the single step that will bring their bodies together. One large hand sweeps across Matt's hair, brushes the too-long bangs out of his eyes before John rests their foreheads together. John's always teasing him about his hair, telling him he looks like a goddamned hippie, and Matt's warned him about a billion times that if he keeps it up he'll come home one day to a boyfriend with a Mohawk or a brush-cut. John always tugs on his hair then, growls that Matt wouldn't _dare_. He tugs now, and Matt takes a deep breath, tries to draw strength from the one source he knows he can always count on.

"Okay?" John says softly.

Matt snorts out a laugh. "Hah. Yeah, right. Zombies, man. Soooo not okay," he says. He takes another breath, digs his fingers briefly into John's shoulders before reluctantly letting go and stepping away. His legs still feel like jello and he thinks he might vomit later, but John is looking at him like he has no doubts about him and the one thing he never wants to do is let John down. "Yeah, okay. Okay. I'll… go gather. Shit."

"One duffel," John reminds him. "And _move_ , kid."

"Right," Matt says. He deliberately doesn't look at the television when he turns away, focuses on his mental list of clothes-shoes-gear and on making his feet take the first steps away from McClane and into the bedroom. He tries to remember if he left the window open in the tiny room, pictures opening the door onto one of those moaning undead things and has to swallow down the bile that rises quickly in his throat.

"Matt."

"WHAT?" Matt spins on his heel, feels his bad leg start to give and pinwheels his arms to keep himself upright. "FUCK, McClane, do you want me to gather our shit up or not?"

John is loading the ammunition from the lockbox into a second small gym bag, working quickly, but he indicates the revolver on the table with a jut of his chin.

Matt deflates, runs a hand through his hair, and swears he can smell gunpowder. He can still see Emerson flying through the air, a slow-motion rag doll. The shocked look in his eyes. The way his fingers twitched when he lay on the cement, the ragged gasps for breath that seemed to go on forever before they finally stopped. Before he finally stopped. "I hate that thing," Matt mutters.

"I know, kid," John says.

But when he stops what he's doing and holds out the second gun, Matt forces himself to take it. He really might have left the window open.

The weapon is slick and heavy in his palm. He forces the images of Emerson from his mind before checking that the clip is loaded and that the safety is on, then tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans. John nods once, satisfied, before returning to his task.

"John?" He waits for John to glance up before continuing. "We're not coming back, are we?"

John doesn't answer, but the look in his eyes tells Matt all he needs to know.

 

II

"What the fuck is going on here, Tim?" John says quietly.

Johansen looks up with a start, the water in the cup he's holding sloshing briefly over the brim before he sets his shoulders and meets John's eyes. "This is none of your concern, McClane."

John takes the final step into the basement and Matt follows, sweeping his gaze quickly across the room. The place is cold and dank, smells like old piss and gym socks, but nobody's had more than cold water sponge-baths in a week so he knows it's not like he smells much better. He wrinkles his nose more from the overpowering citrus-pinetree odour of Johansen's cologne. The marketing genius that thought that combination was a good idea was a complete and utter moron, but he's pretty sure the cop must marinate in the shit.

The holding cells are against the west wall -- six cells, three prisoners.

He hates it when McClane is right.

"You told me that you let everyone go before the shit hit the fan," John says, so softly that Matt almost has to strain to hear him.

Matt shifts nervously in place. When John gets still, when John gets quiet, that's when it's time to worry. A pair of Gruber brothers learned that. Gabriel learned that.

But Johansen just sets the cup down, leans back against a battered desk and folds his linebacker arms across his chest. Matt recognizes the pose, has seen it too many times to count. From the high school jocks who laughed when they face-planted him into his locker, to the do-gooder counsellors, to the uniforms who pull out their batons even when you're backing away from the car with your hands above your head. For some reason Johansen thinks he's in control, thinks he has the upper hand. Matt can't believe that the cop has been sharing close quarters with McClane for a week and is still labouring under that delusion.

"You gotta get us out of here, man," a male voice calls from the cells.

"Shut the fuck up!" Johansen yells back. He glances over his shoulder at the prisoners before turning to McClane defiantly. "You're a fucking bleeding heart, McClane. I told you what you wanted to hear. These shits are staying locked up."

"No," John says. He takes a couple of steps into the room, and Matt shadows him, warily eyes the murky corners in case Johansen has some kind of backup. "We're letting them out, Tim."

"Fuck that. We got barely enough food to last us another week as it is. I got a wife upstairs who's been livin' on Almond Joys and Pepsi for the last three days, and I ain't giving up some of her food to a bunch of whores and junkies!"

Another step. "We're letting them out."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Johansen sneers. He pushes himself away from the desk, waves an arm expansively. "Oh right. _Right_. John McClane. Sure, everybody knows about John McClane. Saved the world, right? You and your little hacker boy-toy there. Well, you ain't gonna save us from this, are ya, McClane? Fucking zombies, jesus christ!" Johansen swipes a hand over his hair, and for the first time Matt realizes just how close to the edge he is, knows too that McClane caught it long before this. Johansen's big hand shakes as he pushes at his head, corkscrews his thick hair into a hundred different directions. "Now it's survival of the fittest, and this scum of the earth ain't the fittest."

"Tim--"

"That's _Detective_ Johansen, old man, and this is a new world--"

Matt knows McClane's been easing his way closer to Johansen, getting within striking distance. But it still surprises him how quickly John can move. He has Johansen against the wall before Matt has time to blink, one thick forearm pressed against the cop's windpipe, cutting off his circulation, the other hand smoothly removing his sidearm before he has time to do more than fumble for the weapon.

"Listen, shithead," John snarls. "The rules have changed. It's not cops versus bad guys anymore. Now it's just us. Survivors. People. I don't give a fuck what they did before this all went down. They're people and they deserve a fighting chance. More than you fucking deserve, asshole."

"You ain't in charge here, McClane," Johansen manages to squeak out. "This ain't even your precinct!"

"Matt," John says without taking his eyes off Johansen, "get the keys. Take these people upstairs and cleaned up, then get some food into them."

It isn't until John looks at him that Matt realizes that he hasn't moved, that his own gun is in his hand and trained at a spot precisely in the middle of Johansen's forehead, has been since John pushed Johansen against the wall and Johansen tried for his own gun. He can't move, because he's too busy picturing the many ways he's going to fucking kill _Detective_ Johansen if he so much as twitches a finger in John's direction.

"Kid. _Matt_ ," John says, and Matt reluctantly flicks his eyes briefly to John's face, catches the appreciative twitch of his lips before he nods. "I got this covered. Move."

It's another long moment, though, before Matt can bring himself to put down his weapon.

* * *

The moaning never stops.

Matt hears it when he wakes, suddenly, dreaming one moment and eyes flying open the next. There's a moment of disorientation, wondering why he's curled on the dirty floor of the precinct, jacket thrown loosely over his shoulders, shivering in grey light. Then it comes back to him: the mad dash through the city, the rapid breakdown of order, the chaos, zombies, John. _John_. Matt looks to his right, but the patch of scuffed linoleum beside him is unsurprisingly vacant.

He pulls himself to his feet, stretches aching muscles and picks his way across the stirring bodies on the floor to get to the hall bathroom. He bends to the sink and a splash of cold water on his face. The moaning is muted here, and if Matt hums to himself he can almost pretend it doesn't exist at all. But he finds that humming makes it worse. Humming makes him worry that maybe, somehow, one of _them_ got inside. That maybe, possibly, one of them is staggering behind him at this very moment, head lolling, teeth snapping, arms stretched out to grab him, to pull him close, to sink sharpened teeth into his flesh.

He looks up quickly to the mirror, heart skip-tripping in his chest, but the room behind him is empty.

He checks his gun before heading back into the hallway.

Mrs. O'Riley is awake, mouth moving silently over her morning rosary. Matt nods to her before making his way to the second floor railing, finds Dave looking down into the bullpen, his breakfast of a Snickers bar held loosely in one hand. The barricades are holding, filing cabinets and desks piled haphazardly against the doors and windows. Between the breaks in the crude barrier Matt can see chinks of early morning sunlight, as well as the shadows of bodies moving against the glass, pressing insistently against it, probing for weakness.

The moaning is louder here.

"There's a crack," Dave says softly.

Matt's pretty sure his heart stops for a couple of beats. He glances over at Dave, waits for the older man to meet his eyes. Dave had quickly regained most of his former vitality after being released from the holding cell, but now he looks bleak, glances down at the chocolate bar in his hand before grimacing and shoving it into his pocket.

"You should eat that," Matt says.

"Not so hungry now, man." He stares back down at the barricades. "Julie found it. It was just the way the moonlight hit it, slanted in just right. Otherwise we wouldn't have seen it at all. There," he says, points to one of the wide windows to the left of the door.

Matt squints, but what little he can see of the glass looks just as secure as it ever did. Meaning, not really secure at all. His stomach does a slow flip. "We can reinforce it," he says, trying to sound confident. "I'll find John, tell him--"

"He knows. Told him last night." He shakes his head, turns his back on the bullpen to lean against the railing. "You know, I had a nice little business going. Ran a few bets, sold a little E. Then this." He sighs. "Fucking zombies."

Matt snorts. "Goddamn undead, messing with your illicit drug sales."

"This is what I'm sayin', man," Dave says. He grins lopsidedly. "And you're not one to judge, buddy."

Matt blinks. "Me?"

This time it's Dave's turn to snort. "You. You got the look, man. I seen it, I know. You been on the other side of those bars." He cocks his head. "How'd you ever hook up with a big-time badass cop like McClane, anyway?"

"Wow, man, I don't even… it's a long story."

"My schedule appears to be free," Dave says primly.

"I'll tell you the whole sordid story later," Matt promises with a distracted smile. He looks over his shoulder, glances past the two uniforms handing out the morning rations, past the ragged line of tired survivors lined up for their allotment of junk food and warm soda. "I should find McClane--"

"On the roof," Dave says.

* * *

The first thing that hits him is the smell - the rank, rancid odour of decay. It overpowers everything else, makes Matt cough and hastily pull the collar of his T-shirt over his mouth in an attempt to block it. His stomach churns and he hesitates in the doorway, his eyes flicking to the corners of the roof where the snipers should be, finds nothing but spent shells.

"I sent them downstairs," John says. Matt's eyes dart to the right, and he spots John sitting on the ground next to the ventilation shaft, an assault rifle resting next to him in the loose gravel, the heels of his worn boots propped against the edge of the roof and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Haven't seen another survivor on the ground in three days."

Matt lets his shirt drop, takes a tentative shallow breath before stepping out into the sunlight. The moaning is almost deafening outside, makes him want to clap his hands over his ears, drop down and curl into a ball. Instead he squares his shoulders and crosses the roof, slides his bag onto the ground and sprawls next to John.

"Wow," Matt says. "So, I'm glad I didn't grab a Snickers before coming up here. Because seriously, man, that's _foul_. I don't think I'll be able to eat this morning. Or, like, ever."

"Not even ketchup packets?"

"Oh man, remember Big Macs? Two pseudo-beef patties, that special sauce. Those little dehydrated onions?"

"It's only been three weeks, Matthew," John says dryly.

"Yeah. Wow, yeah. You're right." Matt scowls for a second, then brightens. "Hey, at least I'm over the Red Bull withdrawal."

"That was a fun three days," John mutters. He waves a hand toward the edge of the roof. "How many, you think?" he asks conversationally.

Matt glances at John before easing to the side of the roof and gazing over the drop. The zombies spill across the sidewalk and into the road, surrounding the building on all four sides, a writhing twisting moaning mass of bodies, so many that it's almost impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins. They push against each other, scrabble and stumble, the ones in the back driving the closest inexorably forward to mash against the glass and brick. Some of them look up to the roof, then more, until they are all looking skyward, arms raised, looking up and up and up with hungry dead eyes. The moans rise in pitch, become feverish, and Matt shivers, leans back. "Jesus," he says. "There's gotta be… fuck…"

"Seven hundred," John says. He takes a final drag on his smoke, lets it drop over the edge. "That's my guess."

"Seven hundred," Matt repeats. He shakes his head. In the three or four days since he's been topside, the number of undead eagerly streaming toward them seems to have at least doubled. "I don't know. I was at a Rage concert once, and I got up on the stage, you know, to dive, and that venue held a thousand people. This looks about the same to me. Maybe more. Shit."

"A thousand." John considers this before cocking his head, squinting at Matt in the sunlight. "Could be. You stage-dived, huh?"

"Yeah. Well." Matt shrugs, ducks his head. "Nobody caught me. Broke my fucking elbow." When John laughs, he scowls. "Sure, right, laugh at the skinny geek who thought he could be all coooool at the Rage concert. Real nice, McClane, very sympathetic, I appreciate it. I was in a cast for six weeks! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to type when your arm's in a cast?"

"Actually, no," John says. "I've always gotten a sling."

"Well if you didn't go around shooting yourself in the shoulder--"

"It worked, didn't it, kid?" John asks. And this time it doesn't make Matt want to grit his teeth. This time it makes Matt want to kiss him, so he does, slides his hand down John's cheek to the back of his head, kisses him thoughtfully and thoroughly.

"Now that was nice," John says when they part. His lips quirk. "You been practicing, kid?"

"Yeah, sure. I got a life-size McClane doll hidden downstairs in the evidence locker, part of the Fire Sale Heroes of Armageddon collection of 2007 at Toys R Us. You've got the Farrell, right?"

"Got it," John says, "but I can't get any action. It won't get off the computer."

"Yeah, well. That's not a problem anymore." Matt looks away, studies his hands. He still lugs his bag everywhere, even though the electricity went out over a week ago. He feels naked without it. Useless, despite his newfound proficiency with a handgun.

To his relief John doesn't say anything, doesn't try to make him feel better or invent some ridiculous story about a mythical fantasy-land that's managed to stave off this invasion, this epidemic. John just slaps a hand on his shoulder and uses it to push himself to his feet, wanders to the far side of the building and scratches at his chin. After a moment Matt leaves his bag where it sits and follows. He runs a hand through his hair, takes note of the dark circles under John's eyes and realizes that it's been days since he's woken to find John beside him on the cold tiled floor. He feels a surge of sudden anger at the people in the building below them, all of them looking to John to figure out how to reinforce the barricades, organize the rations, dole out the ammunition, train the snipers, teach everyone how to fire a gun and to aim for the head. He wants to rage against it, the unfairness of this whole fucking thing, but he can hear John's voice in his head already, asking "who else is gonna do it? Johansen? One of the uniforms?"

McClane will run himself ragged because there is no one else.

Matt bites his lip, because this is definitely a keep-mouth-shut time, but. But. "Listen, man, seriously, you need to get some sleep. When was the last time you slept? You're not going to do anybody any good if you pass out in the middle of a weapons drill or something, you know? McClane?" He rests a hand on John's bicep, squeezes. ""Why don't you sack out on the sofa in the captain's office for awhile? Okay? McClane?"

John ignores him, shakes off his hand gently and juts his chin toward the adjoining building. "We could make it," he says. "Roof to roof. Come out at the end of the block, far enough away from the horde that we could make a run for it. Grab a car, head out to Rutgers, then head south. Get somewhere warm before winter sets in." John scrubs a hand over his head, nods once, slowly. "If we got a running start, we could make it."

Matt looks at the gap between the buildings, and automatically shakes his head. Maybe, if he didn't know there was a four story drop if he failed to make the leap, maybe then he could pull it off. Maybe, if Gabriel hadn't shot out his knee, if the fucking thing didn't still buckle beneath him when he was doing real complicated things like _walking_. And even if he could do it…

"Mrs. O'Riley---"

"Wouldn't make it," John says bitterly. He leans down to pick up a piece of gravel, tosses it once or twice in the air before skipping it across the divide. "More than half of them wouldn't make it. Too old, too fat, too out of shape."

Matt backs away from the edge slowly. He imagines doing it, running across the roof, loose gravel churning beneath his sneakers as it conspires to trip him up, the whoosh of air in his ears as he finally leaves solid ground and flies between the buildings. Just the thought of it makes the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"Are there maybe, like, tunnels in the basement?" he says. "It's an old building, sometimes there's access tunnels that lead into the sewer lines." He nods eagerly, warming to the idea. Anything to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. "Or the subways! There are whole platforms beneath the city that have been abandoned, miles of track that are just forgotten. There could be--"

"It's a police station, Matt," John says pointedly. "We _chose_ to come here because it's so fucking secure. There's no hidden doorway, no abandoned piece of track linking this place to the outside world."

"Shit," Matt says softly.

"Yeah," John agrees. "Shit."

"What are we going to do?" Matt asks.

John scrubs the palms of his hands over his eyes, takes a deep breath. And Matt suddenly realizes what he's said and hates it, because now he's being one of those people, the ones that turn to McClane for all the answers. He's not going to be _that_ guy. "We could salvage," he says quickly. "A couple of us make the jump, go down into the building next door for food and water, whatever other supplies we need."

It's a short term solution, but it's the best he's got.

"We could," John says. "Good thinking, kid."

Matt feels that same surge of pride he felt in that alley, when he figured out that Gabriel would be hitting the power plant. The surge he got afterward, hearing John say _help us win_ , and then actually coming up with an idea that did just that.

If they can't find more supplies they'll be starved out before another two weeks goes by, even with the stricter rations. And the alternative, if the barricades give out…. Matt deliberately doesn't look at the gun strapped to John's shoulder, because he knows he doesn't have to say it. John will take care of him. John always does.

"But first we're going to repair the barricade," John continues. "Dave told you about that?"

Matt nods. "And I'll talk to Serge and Maddie and a few of the others about a salvage operation. I'll take care of it, McClane," he says firmly.

"You hear me arguing?" John asks. He turns his back on the gap between the buildings, sighs as he removes the last cigarette from his pack. He'd found it in the bottom of someone's desk drawer, took up the habit again after a three year absence despite Matt's wrinkled nose and extensive lecture about the pollution he was putting into his body and the hazards of second hand smoke.

"Kid," John had said, "we're in the middle of a fucking _zombie apocalypse_. A walking cadaver could come through that door and eat my brains at any second. Do you _really_ think I give a shit about tar levels and formaldehyde?"

"They don't actually eat your _brains_ ," Matt had muttered, but he'd had to concede the rest of the point.

Now, John glances forlornly at the empty package before crushing it in his fist and tossing it to the gravel. "Guess I'm quitting again," he drawls.

Matt's lips twitch. "Good," he says. "Those things'll kill ya."

 

III

 

He can't remember what happened, not really. John tells him it's okay, he doesn't have to remember all of it, but Matt's life has always revolved around keeping things in order and so he keeps going over it, trying to slot events into some kind of logical sequence. Except there's no logic to zombies, just like there's no way to convince them to leave you alone. They're always there, relentless, never getting hungry or sick, never giving up.

They break through when you least expect it.

That part he remembers. Pulling open the access door from the roof and hearing the screams, the rapid retort of gunfire, the hungry moans of the undead echoing through the building. He'd been talking about another idea, a means of constructing a makeshift bridge to connect the two buildings, and the words had died in his throat. He remembers John pulling his gun and glancing over his shoulder at him, eyes wide and wild. John had said something -- Matt sees his lips moving in his dreams and in his waking memory -- but Matt can never figure out what he said. "Run", maybe, or "come on", or "Move!" John is a big fan of "Move!"

Or maybe it was "Stay here."

John can't remember either.

John had jumped the last four steps, stumbled on the landing and crashed into the wall onto his bad shoulder, grimaced in pain. After that, Matt's memories get hazy. The images flicker in and out, like the quick cuts in the trailer for a scary movie. Except this time, it was real.

 _\-- flash --_

Mrs. O'Riley stumbling to her feet, her rosary still wrapped around fingers that are now curled into claws, a gaping hole in her chest. She staggers into a wall before reaching out with surprising speed, hooking her hand into Cari's long red hair and pulling the girl off her feet, bending to bite, to feed…

 _\-- flash --_

Johansen crouches over the prone body of his wife, his mouth fastened to her neck as she writhes beneath him, her hands curled into fists and beating feebly at his back, growing weaker even as he watches…

 _\-- flash --_

Cameron backs into a corner, raises a thick shard of glass to his neck as the zombies close in…

 _\-- flash --_

"You were going to tell me the story of your life, man," Dave says.

The shirt Matt presses against the wound in Dave's side is already soaked, blood seeping through the thin material to blanket his hand. He looks up, tries to smile. "Yeah, wow. Thought we'd have more…" He shakes his head. "How times flies when you're having fun, huh?"

Dave smiles weakly back. "How 'bout you give me the Readers Digest version, then?"

Matt nods, darts his head quickly above the overturned desk at the sound of gunfire. No zombies in the immediate vicinity, so he eases back, applies more pressure to the wound and tries to ignore the ragged teeth marks at its edges and just what that means. "That's easy," he says. "I was a punk and a wiseass. Then I met McClane. Now I'm just a wiseass."

"Well, man, shit like that is genetic," Dave says. He coughs, and Matt tries not to react to the thin line of red spittle that trickles from his mouth. "You can blame your mother," he finishes.

"My mother." Matt tries to imagine his mother saying a single thing out of line, ever, and fails miserably. "Hah. Now that's funny. The stories I could tell you about my mother. This one time, at church, Reverend Clarke was--" Matt stops short, looks down when Dave forcefully grips his arm.

"No time. Always the way," Dave says. "You gotta help me out, Matt."

"What?" Matt pushes his hair out of his eyes, flinches when something crashes to the ground only a couple of feet away. The ever-present moaning seems to be getting louder; Dave's voice getting weaker. "What?" he says again. "No, Dave, seriously, you're gonna be… this is… you'll be fi--"

"Don't bullshit me," Dave says. "And don't bullshit yourself. You gotta do it."

"I can't." The fingers that Dave closes around his arm are cold, too cold. "Jesus, Dave."

"I don't want to be one of them," Dave breathes out raggedly.

He doesn't remember pulling out the gun, but he can still feel the phantom impression of it, cold against his slick palm. Dave closes his eyes when the barrel touches his temple, and Matt tries to tell himself that he looks like he's at peace.

He has to turn his head away before he can pull the trigger.

 _\-- flash --_

They surround the blonde girl on all sides. Her hands are shaking as she fires, hits one of them -- a tall dark-haired man in a windbreaker, his arms outstretched, his mouth stretched open in an endless moan -- catches him in the shoulder and sends him spinning backward into a short fat woman in a dirty housedress, both of them tumbling to the ground. But more close in -- grey-faced, relentless, red-smeared teeth snapping in eagerness.

John wades into the fray, takes out a skinny kid with a shot to the forehead, whirls and shoots another as it staggers around the corner by the soda machine, sends it spinning to the ground, lifeless. He shoves his gun into his waistband when the clip runs out and swings the strap of the assault rifle around instead, uses it as a club to knock three more off their feet. Then his arm is around the girl's waist as he manhandles her across the room. She screams when one of them comes at them from the doorway of the supply closet, fast, quicker than the rest, newly dead, pale face and wide dark eyes. John spins on his heel but this one got too close, too fast, and he has no room to manoeuvre. He desperately shoves out with the palm of his hand, and Matt can see by the look in his eyes that he knows it's not going to be enough, but that he intends to go down fighting.

John recoils back, winces when a shower of blood and grey matter splatters his face.

Matt's hand wasn't shaking at all when he pulled the trigger. He remembers that.

* * *

"Matt."

Matt jerks, pulls himself upright and rubs at his face. He glances quickly at the CB radio, still humming quietly on the nightstand, the dial permanently set to 66.6 even though there's been no word from Warlock for three days, ever since he went out with the last foraging party in Baltimore. He shakes away the cobwebs and scans the street below before rising from his chair by the window and heading toward the bed.

He eases himself carefully onto the firm mattress, ever mindful of his sore knee, rubs a hand on John's chest soothingly and takes comfort in the strong and steady heartbeat beneath his palm. "You're supposed to be sleeping," he scolds.

"You're thinking again," John says. "It's keeping me awake."

"Awake, huh?" Matt cocks his head, wiggles his eyebrows in a way that he always thought was sort of seductive and knows that John only finds comical. "Now if you'd said UP…"

"Up works too," John says. He tugs gently, and Matt lets himself be pulled down on top of John's body, sighs happily when John's big hand wraps around the nape of his neck and draws him down into a kiss. "Want to fuck you," John murmurs against his lips. "Jesus, Matty, it's been too long."

Matt's dick stirs with interest. It _has_ been a long time. He hums contentedly when John's hand sweeps down his back to cup his ass; leans up on his elbows, licks and nibbles at the tender skin of John's neck and is gratified by the resulting hiss of pleasure and the way John's hips buck involuntarily beneath him. He lifts himself up, fully intending to bury his tongue in John's throat while simultaneously stripping him of every inch of clothing, but one look at the exhaustion etched into the lines of John's face disabuses him of the wisdom of that action. Or any action, no matter what his half-hard cock has to say about it.

He settles for planting a chaste kiss on John's lips, ignoring his grunt of disapproval and sliding down his body to rest his head on John's chest.

John mumbles a half-hearted protest, but does no more than rub his chin against the crown of Matt's head, stroke his fingers through Matt's hair and curl a long strand around one blunt finger. "Getting too long," he grumbles. "You're starting to look like that punk you listen to, that Trent Razor."

"Oh my god, _Reznor_ ," Matt says with a snort. "Trent _Reznor_! And his hair's not even long anymore, he got it cut eons ago, and… you know what, it doesn't matter." He raises his head enough to arch an eyebrow, reaches up to smooth his palm over John's newly-shorn scalp. "Just be careful," he warns, "because there's still some juice left in those clippers in the bathroom."

"You wouldn't _dare_ ," John says, tugs on his hair until Matt relents, groans and snuggles close enough to kiss him softly before flopping back down. For a moment the only noise is the gentle humming of the CB, and Matt actually thinks that John might give in and sleep. Then --

"Who's got watch?"

"Serge," Matt answers quickly. "Don't worry."

He can feel John tense beneath him anyway. Serge is a good kid -- at 16, even Matt feels justified in calling Serge a kid -- but he's, well, a kid. But Johansen was right about one thing: it IS a new world. Serge has notched up as many zombie kills as Julie, almost as many as Matt himself. And taking the back roads had been a brilliant idea on John's part -- the zombies infestation isn't nearly as bad in the little hick towns they're staying in as they make their way south. Serge will be fine.

"When we get to Florida, I'm going surfing," Matt says.

"Oh yeah?"

"Of course, I don't actually know how to surf. Or to swim, for that matter. Well, that's not completely true. I can dog-paddle."

"Dog-paddle, huh, kid?" John murmurs sleepily. When his fingers resume brushing gently through Matt's hair, Matt smiles.

"Yeah, well, it's more like a frantic flailing of all limbs, accompanied by gasping and fish faces," Matt says. "See, that's what happens when you teach yourself to swim using an online course. Don't get me wrong, online is good for some stuff, it's great if you want to learn CSS or something. But swimming, yeah, probably not the best idea I ever had, McClane. So I'm gonna need you to keep an eye out, just to make sure I don't drown or get attacked by a shark or munched on by the undead Kelly Slater or something. You know how to swim, right McClane? McClane?"

John's fingers have stilled, so Matt raises his head carefully, smiles at the slack expression on John's face, the way the worry lines there smooth out when he's asleep, making him look ten years younger. He considers disentangling his hair from John's grasp, sprawling out on the other side of the king size bed. Or going up to the roof, bringing Serge some water and making sure everything is okay.

But John's chest makes a perfectly good pillow, and the heavy arm draped over his back makes him feel safe and warm. Tomorrow they'll have another long day ahead of them, searching for food and gear, avoiding the ever-present zombies, finding a new safe-house as they make their slow journey south. For now, he just wants to rest.

Matt drifts off to sleep to the soft, low accompaniment of John's snores. He doesn't even hear the moaning anymore.


End file.
